


Triggers

by thelookyouredoingthelookagain



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Adapting to Sherlock's return, After the Fall, Comfort, Confusion, Cuddling, M/M, Nightmares, No Mary, Panic Attacks, Secrets
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-07
Updated: 2015-03-07
Packaged: 2018-03-16 16:19:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,069
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3494909
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thelookyouredoingthelookagain/pseuds/thelookyouredoingthelookagain
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After his return, Sherlock receives John's forgiveness and tries to go back to how things used to be. John, however, finds there are still things keeping him from getting over what has happened.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Sherlock Can't See The Truth

**Author's Note:**

> All works here were produced by two friends in the fandom. One writes as SH and one as John, and we edit together. Our characters are based on the BBC's _Sherlock_ , though we don't mind playing a little loosely with canon and the occasional AU. We have whims and like to follow them. While we like to torture our boys with constant misunderstandings, we know they belong together and we always see to that.
> 
> All posted works are complete, and we hope there will be something for everyone. Please take a look at our other works. Just a note, though, there's pretty much always going to be smut. Sometimes fluff, sometimes angst, but always smut. We can't help it: that's just the way we are.
> 
> We plan to add new work each weekend, so please subscribe.
> 
> We also really appreciate the kudos and comments --they mean so much.
> 
> Thanks for reading!

It had been months since Sherlock had come home again. The initial shock was wearing off -- the noises in the flat didn't make John jump anymore, he had started making two mugs of tea again, and of course he had finally stopped snapping at Sherlock. He could understand why Sherlock had done it all even though he didn't like it. Things were almost back to normal. The only problems John had now were the nightmares and the cases.

John had tagged along on the first case Sherlock had taken after coming back. He didn't remember the details now because he'd had a proper panic attack and blocked it out. All he saw was the bloody body, and suddenly all he could see was Sherlock, broken and bleeding on the cement. John had gone pale and sweaty, he couldn't breathe well, and he only just made it out of the room without passing out. He managed to act like he had received an important phone call, but he'd been weary ever since.

He hadn't gone on another case with Sherlock, always coming up with reasons to stay home or even met him there, ensuring he could arrive so late that he didn't have to go inside. He couldn't risk Sherlock finding out. John had made a big deal about being over it, about moving on from what had happened, so he was embarrassed by how affected he was. Let alone the fact that Sherlock would feel guilty and he didn't need that. John just had to keep himself busy and everything would be fine.

Sherlock was at his desk, waiting. For something. John was upstairs and Sherlock was bored. Things between them were back to normal, well, kind of. It wasn't exactly the same. Sherlock could understand, even though he wished he didn't. He knew how much he had hurt John, but it was different seeing it. Seeing his fragility and knowing he'd caused it.

He needed a case; _they_ needed a case. There'd been a few but, excluding the first one, the crimes hadn't been too big, and John and he hadn't been able to work like they used -- to work as a team. Sherlock wanted that back. He wanted their partnership back.

John was updating the blog on Sherlock's latest case, doing his best with the notes Sherlock had given him. When he finished he carried it down to the sitting room with him and sat down on the sofa. "Do you mind if I put on the telly?" he asked.

"Of course not," Sherlock said. "I'm bored." He got up and moved over to the sofa. "You writing up the last case? Want me to look over it?"

John nodded. "I've posted it, but I can edit something if it's wrong," he said. He passed his laptop to Sherlock. In his head he was apologising for not being there himself, but he didn't say it out loud. So far Sherlock hadn't said anything about his absences, and John didn't want to draw attention to the issue.

"Hold on," Sherlock said. "The man with the umbrella wasn't the father -- he was the uncle, remember? I mean, it's not a big thing, but it's not right." He glanced over and then changed his voice a bit. "Did I have it wrong in my notes? Sorry." He kept reading John's post. "Yeah, everything else looks good. It's just a little thing." Of course, it niggled him and he hoped that John would change it. But more importantly, he wondered about why John had got it wrong. John had always been so clear that, while he liked writing them up like stories, the facts always had to be right. Didn't he care about these things anymore?

"Sorry -- no, I'm sure you had it right. I probably just mistyped. Let me fix it really quick." John took the computer back and changed the post immediately. "There. Sorry," he said again, offering him a small smile. Living the cases was easier than this second hand way, but this was what he'd have to get used to now until he got better. _How will you know you're better if you never go?_ John ignored the voice, sure he'd just know when he was ready. He flipped through the channels and found an awful reality show to pass the time. "What would you like for dinner?" he asked. 

"Whatever," Sherlock said. "I'm not bothered. We could order in if you don't fancy cooking." Sherlock was still conscious of all John did around the house. Before he'd left, he had relied on John to do everything, and that no longer seemed entirely fair. Sherlock was still negotiating these distinctions: he wanted things to go back to how they were, but be just that little bit better so that John would forgive and trust him again.

"Yeah," John nodded. "I don't care what we order but that sounds good. If I'm going to cook anything I'll have to go to the shop," he mentioned.

"Let's order in then," Sherlock said. "Let's get whatever we need to do today sorted and then order in and maybe we could watch a film." It was the kind of thing John used to suggest they do, but Sherlock had always rolled his eyes. It didn't seem so bad now; Sherlock regretted his previous reluctance.

"Okay," John smiled. "If I pick dinner you pick the movie," he bargained.

Sherlock made a little grumble. John was much pickier about what they watched, because Sherlock didn't really like any films so nothing ever satisfied him. "All right," he said. He stood up and went back to his desk to finish his work for the day. There were no new cases yet and nothing from Mycroft. Eventually he packed up and announced, "I'm going to get ready for bed, but I promise I'll pay attention to the film because I'm sure it will be excellent."

He disappeared into his room and came out a few minutes later, in his pajamas and dressing gown. He flopped onto the sofa.

John went up to his room to change as well, getting the take out menus out and deciding on Thai for the night. He ordered their usuals and got his money ready before sitting down. "So? What did you pick?"

"Can you get it? On your third shelf, four DVDs in. Unless it's porn. Then pick the one closest on the right that isn't porn," Sherlock said. They were John's DVDs. If he didn't like the one Sherlock had randomly chosen, he shouldn't have bought it.

"You don't even know what it is?" John asked, getting up to look. "That defeats the purpose."

"Shush," Sherlock said. "Well, is it one you like?"

"Of course, it's from my collection. You should know I consider this cheating and I'm holding it against you."

"That's fine with me," Sherlock said, settling in. "When's the food coming? I'm hungry." He turned to look at John. "I'm not. I'm agitated. Sorry. I need a case, I'm finding it a little difficult sitting around the flat. Sorry."

"It's fine. The food should be here any minute and frankly I kind of missed your tantrums." He smiled as the knock on the door sounded. John got up. "Only kind of, okay? Don't get carried away." He went down and got the food, came up and served it into plates, and then moved back to the sofa. He started the film and settled back comfortably. 

Sherlock smiled. He missed his tantrums too and the way John, despite his lost patience, was always laughing by the end of them. Sherlock took his plate and fiddled with his food. "This movie better be good," he said, still smiling. 

"You picked it. Kind of," John smiled.

Sherlock went back to eating, kind of. And watching the film, kind of. It all felt . . . pretty normal. When he was finished, he put his plate on the table and pulled his legs up, hugging his arms around him. "This film is intolerably boring, John," he said, staring at the screen. "Why did you pick it?"

"Don't even start with me, Sherlock," John scolded playfully.

"You love it when I start with you, John Watson," Sherlock said, lifting his legs onto the table and letting his heels drop loudly. "That hurt actually," he said. "For which I blame you."

John shook his head. "That's what you get," he said, sticking his tongue out.

"Why on earth would you tell me to choose a film? Look what I've done," he said, dramatically throwing his hand towards the television. "I seem to have chosen what must be the world's worst movie. Why, John? We were supposed to have a good night in and it's all been ruined."

John grinned. "I think you need to calm down," he said.

"I can't calm down, John," Sherlock said. "I was agitated before and now I'm worse. I'm going out of my mind. Help me."

"And what exactly would you like me to do?" John asked, turning to face him.

"Let's play a game," Sherlock said, curling up and turning on the sofa to face John. "I present two scenarios and you have to choose which you prefer." He looked up like he was thinking and said, "If you have to give up tea or lager forever, which would you give up?"

"Lager," John said. "Your beakers or your violin?"

"Beakers," Sherlock said quickly. "Would you rather never shave again or have all your body hair permanently removed?"

"Oh god -- like all over? My head too?" John asked.

"Your whole person . . . hairless."

John shook his head. "Never shave again," he decided. "Solve every case for the rest of your life with Mycroft or Anderson?"

"Mycroft," Sherlock said. "You'll never eat food again. Would you rather be fed by a drip or have to chew flavourless tablets to get your nutrients?"

John wrinkled his nose. "The drip I guess," he said. He tilted his head in thought for a few seconds. "Would you rather only read information or have someone tell you information? Forever, mind."

"Read it," Sherlock said. "Would you rather die by homicide or suicide?"

John's face fell and he blinked at Sherlock, wondering if he was serious. They had talked about what it had been like for John when Sherlock first left and how finding out Sherlock's had faked his death had caused a new kind of pain. "That's not funny, Sherlock," he said quietly. He tried to tell himself it was just a game, but now he was seeing the images again in his mind and he was feeling anxious.

It took Sherlock's brain -- normally so sharp and quick -- too long to connect the words he'd said to the look on John's face to the meaning of this moment. When he did, it was too late. "Sorry," he said quietly, because he was and there was nothing he could do now to change anything. He turned on the sofa and let his eyes glaze and he looked straight ahead.

"I . . . it's fine. Um, you can ask something else," John said, glancing over at him to show him it was okay. He didn't feel okay, but he wanted to. He wanted this to be okay.

"I think . . ." Sherlock said. "I think maybe I'll go to bed now. This film's . . . of no interest to me." He stood up and stretched. "Thanks for getting dinner. I'll clean up in the morning." He smiled awkwardly and headed towards his room. 

"I thought the film was for us to spend time together," he said after Sherlock, but he was already gone. John shut off the movie and put the plates in the sink. It was just a stupid game, and he'd gone and ruined it. But why would Sherlock ask something like that? John turned the lights off and went up to bed.


	2. John Hides The Truth

John couldn't stop thinking about it now. He knew he was in for a rough night, but he tried to think of other things as he drifted off. It didn't work. In his dream, he saw Moriarty laughing and coaxing John onto the roof. He was saying John could save Sherlock if he could just get to Sherlock and pull him off of the ledge. John hurried up the stairs, panting and feeling like his legs were made of lead.

On the roof he stared at the back of Sherlock, his long coat blowing behind him. He tried to shout, but his voice didn't work. He moved closer and closer and then Moriarty tripped him, and John was falling forward unable to stop himself, and his hands pushed Sherlock's back and Sherlock fell, hitting the pavement.

John didn't realise he'd been yelling out loud until he woke up and he slapped a hand over his mouth. He was crying and he pressed his hands into his eyes. He didn't know what time it was, but he tried to calm down before he looked. He cursed his anxiety, wondering if he should start seeing Ella again. He couldn't keep doing this.

Sherlock heard noises from John's room. To be fair, he had been expecting them. John had tried to downplay the return of his nightmares, but they had not gone unnoticed. Sherlock got out of bed and wrapped his dressing gown around himself. He made his way to John's bedroom door and tapped on it lightly. "John, may I come in?" he said softly.

"I didn't mean to shout," John said by way of answering. He scooted back a bit and leaned against the headboard, rubbing his face hard and hoping his eyes weren't red and puffy when Sherlock came in. 

"Can I sit down with you?" Sherlock asked. "Or get you a cup of tea?"

"Um, no tea because I'd like to try and fall asleep again." He looked at the door and thought for a moment. Maybe seeing him would help his brain relax. "You can come in."

Sherlock took a few steps in. "Shall I sit with you for a bit?" he asked, answering his own question by sitting down on the bed. He awkwardly moved up, leaning back against the headboard and pulling his knees up. "You have a nightmare?" he asked softly.

"Yeah," John nodded, glancing over at him. It was helping -- seeing Sherlock was making John feel a lot calmer. Sherlock was alive and well. "Just the usual, you know, war stuff . . ." He hated lying to Sherlock, but he didn't want him to know what he'd been seeing. They were getting over it now -- moving on -- and he didn't want to bring it up again.

"Was it the film?" Sherlock felt terrible because there had been references to war in it. He should have thought more. "I'm sorry -- I'm sorry if I made it worse."  
  
"No!" John said, shaking his head. "You didn't make it worse and it wasn't the movie. It just happens sometimes," he assured Sherlock.

"All right," Sherlock said, but he still felt like it was somehow his fault. "Do you want to talk or should I just stay here until you fall asleep . . . like I used to?"

John shook his head. "I don't want to talk. You can stay until I fall asleep . . . that would be helpful, actually." John scooted down and pulled the covers up to his waist. He turned on his side and faced Sherlock's hip and feet. "Thanks," he said quietly.

"Of course," Sherlock said. He moved just a little bit down to get more comfortable, but didn't get under the covers. "Do you work in the morning?" he whispered.

"Yeah, I have the alarm set," John said quietly. "If you're sleeping I'll try not to wake you."

"Do you want me to sleep here?" Sherlock asked.

"If you want to. It might take me a bit too fall asleep so if you fall asleep first I don't want you to have to wake up and move," John rambled. He closed his eyes and took slow breaths. He could feel Sherlock beside him -- the bed was tilting a bit and it was warmer. Sherlock's breath was just barely audible. John's own breathing became easier.

Sherlock moved down a little bit. He wasn't entirely sure about sleeping in here -- he only had a few times before. He just closed his eyes and listened to the quiet of the room. He hoped John could sleep more easily now.

Perhaps it was the fact that Sherlock was there with him, but John fell asleep a lot faster than he normally did after nightmares. His mind was blank this time, and he woke easily with the alarm even though he was still tired. He dragged himself out of bed and went to get ready, letting Sherlock sleep.

It took Sherlock a little while once John had got out of bed to wake up and remember where he was. He stayed there for a moment and then got up and went down to the kitchen to put on the kettle. He poured two mugs of tea and left one on the counter for when John came out of the shower. He went into his room to get dressed.

John came back to his room to change and felt a small stab of panic when he saw the empty bed. Then he reminded himself that Sherlock had probably just gone downstairs. As he got changed and headed down, he saw the tea and smiled softly. He was fine. A nightmare took a couple days to recover from, but he just needed to do his best to keep away from bad images.

"Good morning," Sherlock said when he saw John. "Feeling better this morning?"

"I am, thanks," John said, taking his tea gratefully and putting some bread in the toaster. "I'm sorry about all of the commotion last night."

"No bother, John," Sherlock said. "Your bed's quite comfortable," he added, smiling a bit.

John smiled softly as he got his toast. "Well, that's good," he said.

"I can stay in there tonight if you need me," Sherlock said and then wondered if he was laying it on too thick. He really meant it -- he didn't mind staying near John in case he needed him, he never had -- but maybe Sherlock would just be better off trying to be more sensitive about John's sensitivity. At least this was something concrete Sherlock could do.

"Well, let's see how I feel tonight," John smiled. "I have to go now so I'll see you later." He left quickly and thought about Sherlock's offer. While Sherlock was a great help in calming him, he was worried another nightmare might reveal the real cause of them. Not that Sherlock didn't know about the nightmares he had about the fall, but it had been a long time and he didn't want to admit that they were back and how easily triggered he was.

Sherlock finished his tea and took a shower. He put on a clean pair of pajamas and got out a book. He kept his phone close in case Lestrade or Mycroft had a job for him.

By lunch time John was feeling a lot better and he went to eat outside. It was a bit chilly, but he didn't mind. He wondered what Sherlock was doing but then realised he had stayed out a bit too long and in his rush to get back for his afternoon appointments, he forgot to text him.

Sherlock had managed to be bored to sleep on the sofa, but he woke up to a vibration on his chest.

_You're needed. GL_

There was a link to a location. Sherlock sat up quickly, got dressed and was out the door. He sent a quick text to Lestrade to let him know they were on the way, and attached the location link in a text to John.

_Case. Meet you there in ten. SH_

John was just getting a patient in when his phone vibrated. He looked at the message and felt his stomach twist.

_Too busy. Sorry. -JW_

He stuffed the phone back into his pocket and went back to his patient, clearing his throat and trying to get his mind back to what he was doing.

Sherlock grabbed Lestrade when he arrived, "Where's John?" he asked him.

"Isn't he with you?" Lestrade asked.

"He's meeting us here," Sherlock said, looking around. He checked his phone. What was John doing? What was more important than this?

_You're needed. SH_

He sent the text to John and then followed Lestrade in to look at the scene, assuring him (and himself) that John was on the way.

But John wasn't on the way. He never arrived. Once inside, Sherlock was in observation mode, focusing on every detail and sharing what he'd found. When he left, he was busy processing but before he was halfway home, Lestrade had already texted to say the perp had been found. Not much of a case -- not long or complicated enough -- but it was something and Sherlock had been glad for it.

John was feeling guilty. He'd used work to get out of cases before, but usually he was more creative than this. He wondered how long it would be before he ran out of excuses or Sherlock finally caught on and demanded an answer. When the day was over, he stayed late to do mindless paperwork, deep down knowing it was to add to the lie. When he finally headed home, he walked, picking up dinner along the way to make up for it. He looked around for Sherlock as he walked in, hanging his coat and heading for the kitchen. "Hello?" he called as he served his plate. He wondered if Sherlock was eating.

Sherlock stared out the window of the taxi. He saw a man walking on the street and, for a moment, thought it was John. He read John's text again. Too busy to come on a case? It's not that Sherlock didn't believe that John was busy -- he's sure he was. But John was often busy, but that hadn't ever kept him from cases. Except, Sherlock realised, until recently. Sherlock tried to flip through the catalogue in his mind of all his cases, and yes, John had claimed he was too busy a few times recently. Why?  
  
The taxi pulled up in front of the flat and Sherlock glanced up to see that the lights were on. John was home. He let himself in and went upstairs. He hadn't decided whether or not to say anything about his questions yet, so for now he said nothing as he hung up his coat and scarf. 

John heard footsteps on the stairs, and he muted the telly, looking over at the door. For some reason he felt guilty having said he was busy when he was lying on the sofa watching telly now. He sat up and looked over at Sherlock as he walked in. "I was so beat after work I just came home after . . . how was the case?" he asked. 

"Fine, sorted," Sherlock said. He made himself a cup of tea and came over and sat in his chair. "You’re all right?"

"Yeah, just tired," John said. "I didn't put the food away yet and it should still be hot, if you want." He felt nervous, but he hoped it wasn't showing. 

"Not hungry," Sherlock said. He sat for a few minutes. "Well, I'm going to take a quick shower." He stood up and moved to the bathroom, cleaning off the feel of the crime scene. He put his pajamas back on and went back out to the sitting room. He didn't feel like watching telly or watching John watch telly. "I think I might go to bed," he said.

"I --" John scooted to the edge of the sofa but his words died on his lips. _I thought you were going to sleep in my room._ "I am too, actually." He moved into the kitchen and put the food away, shutting all of the lights off and then the telly. "Good night," he said, moving to the stairs. 

"Good night then," Sherlock said. He lay down on his bed. He didn't feel good.

He should -- he should feel good, satisfied; even though it hadn't been a long or difficult case, he had solved it. But he didn't feel even a little bit of his normal self-satisfaction. He didn't feel good at all. He rolled over on his side and tried not to think about it.

John stared at the ceiling for a long time, his stomach twisting guiltily while his mind stubbornly worked to find more excuses that he hadn't used yet for the next case. It was a bit exhausting, and he wondered what would be so bad about just telling Sherlock what was going on. But that would make it seem like he had lied about being okay before -- and he really hadn't, he just hadn't expected the panic attacks. In all honesty he was still getting used to Sherlock being home a little bit. Maybe the panic attacks would stop when he was properly better. But he definitely couldn't tell Sherlock that. He sighed heavily and buried into his pillow, trying to force sleep. It wasn't working.  

Sherlock was still thinking about it. He picked up his phone.   
  
_You asleep yet? SH_

John turned onto his belly and looked towards his phone, pulling it closer and reading the message. 

_Not yet. -JW_

_Feel okay? Do you need me to come in? SH_

_I'm afraid you're mad at me. -JW_

_I'm not. SH_

_I haven't had a nightmare again. -JW_

_But I thought you might come anyways. -JW_

Sherlock stared at the phone for a moment. Did John want to talk about something?  
  
_All right. SH_

Sherlock got up and made his way to John's door before tapping lightly on it.

John scooted over to the side he was on last night before calling for Sherlock to come in. "This is an odd habit we've started," he murmured, smiling softly. 

"One night isn't a habit, John," Sherlock said. He sat down on the bed. "Is something going on?"

John swallowed hard. "I just thought you wanted to sleep in here. With me," he said.

"All right," Sherlock said. He lay down on the bed and turned on his side away from John. After a few minutes, he said, "Why don't you want to come on cases anymore?"

John opened his eyes and blinked at the back of his head. He hadn't been prepared for this conversation now and he stammered through an answer. "It's not . . . I do . . . of course I do, but things just keep coming up . . ." He squeezed his eyes shut and tried to pretend that awful answer hadn't happened. 

Sherlock swallowed. "Do you . . . not want us to be friends like that anymore?" he asked. The words weren't quite right, they weren't precisely what Sherlock was really trying to ask, so he added, "Do you just want to be . . . flatmates now?" He realised he was whispering.

"No! I mean, of course I want us to be friends," John said, suddenly having the urge to reach out and touch him, to tap his shoulder or curl against his back. "I just . . . things have been coming up," he repeated. 

"All right. I understand," Sherlock said. "I won't hassle you about it." He shifted a bit on the bed. "Have a good sleep. Wake me up if you need me." He tried to close his eyes for sleep, but he was still thinking.

John closed his own eyes, but it was still impossible to sleep. After a few minutes, when he could pull it off as an accident, John moved forward so that he rested his forehead in the middle of Sherlock's shoulder blades. He breathed slow and deeply so that Sherlock would think he'd fallen asleep, and thankfully only a few minutes after that he properly started dozing.

Sherlock felt certain that whatever had made John change his mind about coming on cases was entirely his fault. And so was the return of the nightmares. But he didn't yet understand why, but he knew, well, hoped, that we would eventually figure it out. Suddenly he felt John's head against his back. But John didn't say anything, didn't tell him to move or go back to his room. So Sherlock did nothing. It seemed like John had settled, so Sherlock took a deep breath and tried to do the same.


	3. Sherlock Sees The Truth

This night John's mind was clear or whatever he did dream, he didn't remember when he woke up. He was still leaning against Sherlock and he rolled onto his back to give him space. He looked over at him and touched his hair lightly, pulling back before he noticed. "I'm sorry," he whispered softly, looking at the ceiling again. He closed his eyes again and went back to sleep.

Sherlock's sleep was empty -- he didn't dream but his brain wasn't entirely at rest. When he woke up, he was on his back and so was John. He turned to look at him sleeping. He sat up slowly and then got up to go to the bathroom. He then went into his own room to start the day, though he first lay down on his bed and tried to clear his thoughts a bit. Whatever was going on with John couldn't be the focus of his thoughts -- it was obvious John didn't want to talk about it, and Sherlock had promised not to hassle him.

John opened his eyes as he felt Sherlock leaving, but he didn't say anything about being awake. After a few minutes he got up and went to the kitchen to start the kettle.

When Sherlock heard John in the kitchen, he stood up, quickly got dressed and came out. "Work today or will you be lounging around here?" he said, smiling, as he poured his tea.

"No work today. I thought I could type up last night's case," he said.

"All right, maybe," Sherlock said. "Should we go out for lunch? My treat. Why not? I've got nothing else to do," he added, pouting a little before deciding not to talk about cases (or the lack thereof).

"Yeah, I'll come with you," John smiled. He was glad Sherlock wasn't angry -- that he still invited John after last night's conversation. 

In the late morning, John went to get ready. Sherlock's phone vibrated.

_You're needed. So is John. In front of the British Museum. GL_

Sherlock stared at it for a moment. He was torn between doing what he wanted to do and what he thought was the right thing to do. Mainly because he didn't know what the right thing to do was. John wasn't busy -- surely he would want to come along. But what if John hadn't meant what he said last night . . . Sherlock didn't know what to make of that thought. He wasn't ready to accept that possibility.

_On our way. SH_

When John came down, Sherlock said, "Let's go. I need to make a quick stop on the way."

"Oh, okay," John said, putting his coat on as he followed Sherlock down the stairs. "Do you want to pick the restaurant? No tricks again," he teased. 

Sherlock thought of a little diner near the museum. If this case went as quickly as yesterday's, they could go there. "I'll choose -- properly," he said. Then he stopped talking, then worried if not talking was wrong. But by then, they were almost there. "Right up here is fine," he said to the taxi driver.

John looked out as they passed Bart's and headed towards the museum. Where a large crowd was gathered. And police. John's stomach twisted violently and he gripped the handle of his door. "Sherlock," he mumbled, swallowing hard. 

Sherlock was already looking ahead. "Just a quick stop," he said. "Lestrade asked for you. Come on," he said, throwing the driver some money and pulling John.

John hesitated, forcefully being pulled along by Sherlock. _It's going to be fine. Just breathe. He's holding on to you which means he's alive._ John repeated the words in his head over and over as he tried to keep it together. They arrived on the scene, pushing through the crowd. Sherlock let go of John's arm so he could look properly, and John felt the panic attack hit like a bag of bricks. The body was bloody and mangled on the sidewalk. All John could see was Sherlock on the ground, Sherlock dead on the ground. His breath caught in his throat, and he felt his hands and knees shaking. He tried to move back but the crowd was blocking his way. He felt trapped. He couldn't stop seeing it, couldn't make his brain remember that Sherlock was fine. 

Sherlock had bent down to inspect the body, looking past the obvious wounds. He noticed a small mark on the neck. "John," he said, staring down, "what do you make of this?" But John didn't come over. Through all the noise, he didn't hear John's voice. He called for him again, but he didn't come. Sherlock looked up and saw it -- saw the absolute terror on John's face. He stood up, moving away and ignoring Lestrade's voice, and went to John. "John," he said, but John's eyes went through him. He made his voice calmer. "Come on, John," he said softly, "we're going home." He put his arm around him, turned them both and hailed a cab.

John couldn't have fought him if he wanted to. Sherlock easily moved him through the crowd, to the street, and then into the cab. His lungs started burning and he started breathing, quick and shallow. He was gripping his own trousers in an attempt to steady his hands. Somewhere in the back of his mind a small voice was scolding him -- the secret was out now. As the cab sped along his breathing became a little bit easier. Without the body directly in front of him, the image of Sherlock on the pavement was fading.  

Sherlock pressed against John in the car, stroking his arm but saying nothing. He heard John's breath change slightly, hoping this was a good sign. When they got to the flat, he led them both upstairs and into John's bedroom. He set John on the bed and said, "Just a minute. I'll get you some water." He got two glasses and returned to John's bedroom. He handed one to John and took a sip of the other, before moving to sit on the opposite side of the bed. "Perhaps," he said softly, "you could tell me what's going on."


	4. John Tells The Truth

Once in the flat John felt so much better -- now his panic was fading into embarrassment. He let Sherlock take him upstairs and then he held his glass of water tightly. His eyes burned as he took a deep breath. "I don't come on cases anymore because the bodies remind me of you and I get panic attacks," he said quietly. "I didn't want you to know because I-I'm not mad anymore and I've forgiven you . . . but I can't stop them."

Sherlock listened and it all made sense. He scolded himself for not figuring it out sooner, for not paying closer attention, but, despite John's influence, he still was poor at dealing with emotional things. "I wish you had told me," he said quietly.

"I know . . .I'm sorry," John said quietly. "I just didn't want -- I just wanted everything to be okay . . . you know, between us."

"But what happened . . . what I did . . . that's a part of us. We can't pretend it's not. This is what happens when we try to pretend things are okay."

"It's mainly just when I see the bodies," John explained lamely. 

"But that's not okay," Sherlock said. "How can I help you?"

"I don't know. When you sleep in here -- or when you touched me at the crime scene -- that helps. Whatever my brain is doing, it helps me to know you're back, that you're alive." 

Sherlock sat quietly, trying to make it make sense in his head. "Can we lie down for a couple minutes?" he finally said.

"Yeah," John said. He put his glass on the bedside table and lay down on his back, looking over at Sherlock. 

Sherlock waited for a second and then lifted his legs up onto the bed and lay flat next to John. "I feel like I should tell you something," he said quietly, staring up at the ceiling.

John swallowed hard again and nodded, moving to look at the ceiling himself. "Okay," he said. 

"When I was away, I thought of you all the time," Sherlock said. "Which is logical because we spent so much time together before I left. We lived together and worked together. Obviously you'd be on my mind." He paused. "And, as you now know, I had to do what I did to protect you. The others, yes, but . . . mostly you." He swallowed awkwardly and then sat up a little to take a drink before lying back down. "But I mean . . . I thought of you all the time when I was away. I had to . . . do you know what I mean?"

John listened quietly and tried to understand, but he didn't. "You had to what? I don't understand," he said quietly. He had thought about Sherlock all the time as well but the fact that Sherlock thought about him a lot was surprising -- if he knew he was coming back, he really had no reason to. But like Sherlock said they had been friends, close friends, so John wasn't sure exactly what point Sherlock was trying to make.

"I mean . . . I had to to get through . . . it was the only way that I could tolerate it, get through it. Thinking about you. It was . . . comfort," Sherlock said softly. It felt like a confession, because they'd never really talked about these things before he left and when he returned, they talked mostly about John's feelings. But Sherlock had feelings too, even though he was reluctant to admit that. "And there's something else."

John flushed lightly and nodded, understanding what he was saying. "What else?" he asked quietly. 

"When I used to think of you, I sometimes . . . thought of us touching," Sherlock whispered. As he did, he moved a little onto his side, curling himself around John. "Just like this. I know we never did this, but . . . it's what I imagined. What helped."

John turned and wrapped his arms around Sherlock, burying his face into Sherlock's shoulder. "I've thought of us touching since you got back." His voice was muffled against Sherlock's chest, but he stayed there anyways. 

Sherlock lay there with John. He held him and John held back. Just like Sherlock had thought of so many times. It felt nice, warm, safe. It was comfort. "Can this be a part of us now?" he said softly. "For real, not just in my head?"

"Yes please," John murmured, nodding against his neck. "I feel so much better close to you, Sherlock."

"Does it . . . does it worry you at all?" Sherlock asked.

"No. The panicking worries me more than this. But I believe this will help," he said. 

"What about the gay thing?" Sherlock said. "That used to worry you a lot, don't forget. I mean, this, on your bed. It's kind of gay, John."

John smiled softly. "I sort of got over that when my therapist made me realise I was in love with my flatmate," he said quietly. 

Sherlock thought for a few moments before speaking. "Are you in love with me, John?" he asked.

John nodded again. "I know that seems sudden but . . . after you fell everything was so empty, the grief was so big," he said. "I didn't understand how everyone managed to carry on and then she helped me see. I lost more than they did. I had been so blind." He paused and took a deep breath. "When you came back I sort of . . .locked that away again. I was so glad to have you back and it was just so overwhelming that I settled for friendship, something I already knew how to do."

"All right," Sherlock said, because he wasn't quite sure what else to say. He realised his fingers were stroking John's arm a little and he concentrated on that feeling for a bit. Then he said, "And did Ella think I loved you, too?"

John shrugged. "There was no way for her to know that since she hadn't ever met you. She had a one-sided story," he said. "But I thought so," he added quietly. "Maybe just a little."

"And were you ever planning on letting me in on any of these things? Or were you just going to keep them a secret forever like you were with the case thing?"

"I think I would have eventually. I just wanted to try and fix the case thing -- I was hoping it would go away," he said. "But Sherlock, I think I'm going to need more time with the cases. Today showed me that it hasn't got even a little better -- it triggers the panic."

"That's all right, John," Sherlock said, still stroking his arm. "It's different now that I understand." He paused. "The nightmares -- are they because of me as well?"

John nodded his head a little. "They're of that day . . ."

"I'm sorry, John," Sherlock said, curling a little more closely. "I'm so sorry."

John shook his head. "Don't -- please don't be sad," he said quietly, petting his hair. "This is why I kept quiet. I don't want you to be sad." 

"John Watson," Sherlock said softly. "Haven't we enough evidence that keeping silent to try to protect someone isn't necessarily the greatest of strategies?"

"I know," John said quietly. "I know but we've been through so much and I just . . .I wanted us to be normal and happy."

"I am happy with you, John," Sherlock said softly.

John smiled softly. "I am happy with you, too."

"Can I stay in here the whole night?" Sherlock asked.

"I'd like you to stay every night," John said, pressing a kiss against his neck where he was still buried.  

"John," Sherlock said softly.

John held perfectly still as if he hadn't done anything. "Hmm?"

"I do love you, too," Sherlock said.


End file.
